


Fantasy

by StormySkies



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: F/M, but i tagged it anyway to be safe????, don't know if it's heavy enough to be m????
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-25
Updated: 2014-02-25
Packaged: 2018-01-13 17:22:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1234786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StormySkies/pseuds/StormySkies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The three times she told him she loved him and the one time it counted. Modern AU E/É one-chapter fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fantasy

She comes home late from her late-night shift at the bar one day and notices that the door is suspiciously unlocked. Immediately, her left hand slips into the coat pocket where she keeps her pepper spray. She turns the doorknob very, very slowly and lets it swing open while she stands with her back to the wall, shielded from sight as the hallway lights spill into her tiny apartment.

She counts to forty in her head, and then cautiously pokes her head in the doorway and catches a mop of crazily curly black hair disappear behind her couch. Her hand goes limp at her side as she sighs in part relief, part exasperation.

Shutting the door behind her as she walks in, she flicks on the lights and crosses her arms, glaring around the seemingly empty apartment. "I hope you all know I mistook you guys for home invaders and if Courf's big curly head hadn't been sticking in the air I probably would have--"

"Surprise!" the distinctive baritone of Bahorel roars, with a tinge of panic, and suddenly her entire living room, eight-by-ten square feet and all, explodes into a cyclone of confetti, streamers, and shouts.

If this kind of thing didn't happen every time the Amis had a party, she would have jumped.

Instead, she estimates the clean-up time after her crazy friends leave to be at least four hours. Five if Grantaire brought the marshmallow fluff again. "Wow, you really got me there," she drawls sarcastically.

A whirl of long blonde hair and vanilla perfume hurtles towards her and she stumbles back a few steps to avoid getting trampled on. "Happy birthday, Éponine!" Cosette squeals, and thrusts a freshly baked cake in her face, smeared with frosting and decorated with chocolate and fruit. Candles in the shape of "22" stick out of its centre, surrounded by hearts and flowers (she's not sure if the person responsible for that was Jehan or Cosette - both are equally plausible).

She feels a smile begin to form. For people that didn't even know her birthday a year ago, they did a good job remembering this time 'round and even threw her a party. "Thanks, Cosette," she says with a honest smile, which is unusual because bullshit is practically her middle name. "I would hug you, but you're holding that cake..."

Cosette tosses it to one side and Combeferre just barely catches it on its way to the ground. She launches herself into the shorter girl's arms, squeezing ridiculously tight. Éponine lets out a muffled groan of discomfort.

"Hey, what about us?" Grantaire whines from under that one dusty chair she only ever kept because she's a hoarder, speaking in between sneezes. "We planned this whole thing!"  
  
"Actually, Courf and Enjolras and Cosette planned it. You did jack-squat," Musichetta reminds him. She in squashed in between Joly and Bossuet, both of whom look perfectly content to be plastered tightly to her sides between two bookshelves.

Éponine's eyebrows shoot up. She understands Courf and Cosette's involvement (they plan about 95% of all the parties, hence the obscene need for everything to be a surprise), but Enjolras? He's one of her oldest friends, but he had probably never even been to a party. Voluntarily, of course. Her eyes scan the room until they land on familiar golden curls, her smile widening as he looks away and rubs at his flushing neck in embarrassment. Enjolras screams the loudest during student rallies, but he handles social interaction about as well as Joly handles bacteria: poorly.

"Thank you very much," she says, making sure she sounds as genuine as she feels, and though her words are directed at everyone her eyes are fixed on Enjolras. His head whips up and when they gazes meet he returns her smile tentatively. He doesn't smile much, but when he does, it transforms his face so magnificently that she feels the wind escape her lungs in a violent gust.

She doesn't notice everybody exchange significant looks.

Once Cosette and Jehan (who  _was_ responsible for the hearts and flowers) have doled out enormous servings of cake and supplied everybody (but Enjolras) with at least two bottles of alcohol, Courfeyrac grandly announces the commencement of Present Opening Time.

"You didn't have to get me anything," Éponine says automatically, and the entire room groans as a whole.

"It's your birthday!" Feuilly exclaims. "Let us spend money on you just this once."  
  
"And coming from the King of Coupons over there, that's a big fucking deal," Grantaire adds, jerking a thumb in the redhead's direction, who treats the cynic with a cheerful middle finger.

Éponine smirks and allows herself to be herded towards the pile of gifts and - 

"Holy mountain of presents, Batman," she gapes, because there is a  _shit ton_ of stuff for her. "You  _really_ didn't have to--"

"Mine first!" Bahorel interrupts her, barreling to the front.

"Oh, fuck no!" Courfeyrac growls back. "I organised Present Opening Time. She opens  _mine_ first."

Just to spite them, she opens Joly's first. It's  _200 Deadly Pathogens and How to Avoid Them_ , listing many ways she could die a painful, germ-induced death and even more methods she could adopt in order to evade said deaths. Feuilly gives her a CD set full of Polish pop and rap songs - which she will probably listen to once and only once - as well as the painting he'd done for her last month. Bahorel presents her with a gleaming new pocketknife with her name engraved into the walnut wood handle. Combeferre has bought her a box set of all of George Orwell's books. Bossuet gifts her with a large quantity of chocolate, ranging in flavour from plain Milk to Tropical Nut to Orange Peel.

Musichetta gives her a recipe book full of baking recipes. Grantaire has bought her some expensive scotch and a mixology book. Courfeyrac gifts her the box set of Game of Thrones seasons 1 and 2. Cosette gives her a bunch of beauty and spa products, from shampoo to bubble bath liquid to nail varnish. Marius given her a load of gift cards to bookstores and music shops. Jehan brings her a book on the different meanings of flowers, plus an enormous bouquet that he spends about 20 minutes describing in detail.

Enjolras' present is the last she opens. He hasn't been fighting like the others to get her to open it, and now, as she glances up at him and sees the glimmer of a smile in his eyes, she knows it's because he wanted her to open his last. "What is it?" she wonders aloud. "It's pretty light."

"Open it," he says, that stupid fucking  _beautiful_ smile on his face again.

She tears apart the paper and sees a small white box. In the centre of the lid is a vaguely familiar emblem. She narrows her eyes at the slightly crooked black etchings in ink, mind racing. 

"Turn it around," Enjolras suggests.

She glances back up at him, a smile tugging on her lips despite her confusion, and rotates it to the left. Her jaw drops when she realises what it is, and instantly she is transported a couple months back.

Nobody else had been willing to go, except Enjolras, who only went to get away from the heated debate between Grantaire and Feuilly on who was the best Expressionist visual artist. He had little interest in art. So Éponine and Enjolras went to the Lost Languages exhibit at the local museum, where she had nearly swooned at seeing all the ancient, undeciphered words on display. She remembers spending nearly an hour staring down at a tablet of Linear A and another tablet of Rongorongo, itching to whip out her notebook and materials and scrawl all the captivating symbols down on paper. Enjolras had sighed and sipped at his coffee and worked on his latest political science paper. "Crazy linguistics majors," he'd muttered belligerently under his breath, before treating her to dinner.

Now her hands tremble at the edges of the box. There is  _no way_ he got her what she thinks he got her. In a split second decision, she lifts the lid off the box and stares down into a sea of bubble wrap. Biting her lip, Éponine pulls the layer of padding away and finds herself looking at a small piece of stone, etched with the same markings as the ones on the box.

She looks back up at Enjolras. His mouth is still slightly upturned in a smile, clearly nervous. "Is this...?"

"One of the Harappan script seals? Yes, it is."

She takes the seal, in its plexiglass case, out of the bubble wrap with reverence. "God, it's beautiful."

"What the fuck is Harappan script?" Grantaire whispers somewhere behind Enjolras, and is swiftly kicked in the knee. "Ow, shit!"

"Is it... okay?" Enjolras asks hesitantly, ignoring the already-drunk Amis.

"Are you kidding? Of course it's-- God, how did you even get this? How expensive was this?" Éponine's voice is breathless as she turns the case 'round and 'round.

"I can't tell you that," Enjolras smiles again, and shit, she can't believe he doesn't smile more.

She places the seal back into the box and closes it. "I fucking love you," she says before she really knows what she's saying.

The room turns silent except for Enjolras, who chuckles and grins. "You like it then?"

"Oh, _yes_." Éponine tugs him to her and wraps her arms around his torso (adamantly ignoring his truly  _fantastic_ chest as always) and smiles into his shoulder, breathing in his clean scent. She catches a whiff of his shaving cream. "I love you," she says again, this time to his shirt, as he brings his own arms around her waist. 

"You're very welcome," he murmurs back, and she can hear the smile in his tone. The vibration his voice makes gives her shivers.

Neither of them knew exactly what she said until the morning after when she's thinking back on all this, staring down the seal in her hands, and realises that not only is she in love with fucking  _Enjolras_ , her  _friend_ , she's just said the Three Words to his face - twice - and he didn't even get the message.

* * *

 

She knew the moment she stepped into the flat that everybody was going to get wasted. Well, most of it was probably because this was Courfeyrac's party, and Courfeyrac lives with Bahorel and Grantaire, and whenever the party is held where Grantaire lives there's always an excess amount of alcohol both offered and consumed.

There's the typical loud music (courtesy of Bahorel), the drinking games (Grantaire), and the screaming and shouting and running around like a lunatic (Courfeyrac). Then there's Joly sanitising everything, Bossuet falling over and breaking things, Cosette and Marius making out, Musichetta dancing on a table, Jehan braiding people's hair, Feuilly singing in a mixture of French and Polish, Combeferre trying to placate two wrestling people (she discerns Bahorel and Courfeyrac in the mass of limbs), and Enjolras glaring at people while trying to study amidst the chaos.

Just your average Les Amis d'ABC party.

She wins beer pong by a staggering landslide, sending off Marius and Courfeyrac as they slur insults at her, hardly tipsy herself.

Body shots happen and she steers clear, because however much she loves her boys she does not want to get their hair and body odour anywhere near her drinks.

Musichetta invites her to climb up and dance with her, and she does. Until, of course, 'Chetta decides to do a weird slithering and grinding move that makes her look a little like a salamander having a seizure, to which Éponine says "fuck no" and hops off the table.

In a few hours, everyone is unconscious and well and truly drunk.

Everyone, that is, except Éponine and Enjolras, because she has an exceptionally good alcohol tolerance and because he has an exceptionally bad one.

He's unceremoniously dragged Grantaire off the sofa and dumped him on the floor next to Feuilly, and is now sitting on it reading Voltaire.

Her heart, which she damn every single moment of her life, swells and before she can stop herself she's plopped herself down next to him. She looks up at his face and absentmindedly begins to examine every contour: the angle of his strong jaw, the fullness of his girlish mouth, the dark blonde eyelashes, the furrowed eyebrows as he reads, and the brilliant blue of his eyes.

His head turns towards her and she quickly pretends she hasn't just been memorising what his face looks like for later that night when she'll imagine him naked and pressed against her, breathing hard as he puts his lips right next to her ear as he tells her he--

"I love you," she blurts out, but even though it comes out all garbled and slurred (can't blame her, really, imagining a man like that naked would short-circuit anybody's brain), she knows he heard it just fine.

She wants to kick herself or at least slam her head into a wall. Since her birthday, they've gone from being "friends" to "good friend" to "best friend" and you just don't tell your best friend you love him in  _that way_ even if you do have the most pathetic crush  _ever_ \- well, maybe except for that year that she liked Marius - and risk everything between you because he's the best thing that's ever happened to your miserable, fucked up life and--

"You're drunk," Enjolras sighs, not even looking up from him book, but smiling nevertheless. Normally she'd reflect on how since they'd gotten closer he'd been smiling a lot more around her, but he's mistaken her confession for something else,  _again_.

She weighs her chances against the risks, and then plays up her acting skills, letting out a giggle and giving him a sloppy smile. He finally looks at her and grins at the dopey expression on her face, closing his book. "Okay, you're definitely drunk," he says.

"'Mnot," she protests feebly as she slumps forward, head hanging dangerously close to his lap.

"I'll drive you home," he says, gently lifting her up and putting an arm around her waist to steady her stumbling steps. She may or may not have stumbled a little more than necessary to remain in his arms, but he doesn't seem to notice because he's too focused to moving the both of them to where his car is parked. 

When he gives her the softest smile known to man as he buckles her into the car seat, her pulse races, and she asks herself whether she really should have backed out of telling him the truth.

* * *

 

They're having sex. 

It all happens rather quickly actually. 

She's sensed the sexual tension in the air. He's stared at her breasts long enough for it to count as ogling, and she  _knows_ he checks her out every time she walks in the room. And she's not completely innocent either - she's seen him shirtless on more than one occasion and nearly tripped herself in the process, and his ass is  _more_  than satisfactory. 

Even then, she never saw this coming. One moment they're sitting next to each other on her couch watching Iron Man 2 and the next they're having a full-fledged make-out session while Black Widow kicks ass on screen.

And then Enjolras hastily pauses the DVD and they move to the bedroom and soon they're having mind-blowing sex and it's the best she's felt in, well, in her whole life.

But she makes sure she doesn't say "I love you". Instead, she says "Enjolras", which turns out to be quite easy, because cliché or not, whenever she says his name to him it feels like she's saying "I love you" anyway.

When they're done and and they've regained their breath, Enjolras breaks the post-coital silence. "Do you want to finish the movie?"

She bursts out laughing and says yes before kissing him full on the mouth - she'll never get tired of that - and pulls on his shirt as she leads them back to the TV.

They form a kind of unspoken agreement: best friends with benefits. When they're with their friends they don't kiss or touch each other more than friends are supposed to, and most of the time they're alone they do Friend Things, like eating takeout while watching TV, reading together, grabbing a cup of coffee, etc.

Sometimes, though, while they're reading their separate Lord of the Rings books, she'll set their things very carefully to the side before attacking his neck with her lips and teeth and tongue. Even better, in the middle of translating ancient Sumerian, she'll look up at him and he'll cup her face in his long, elegant hands and kiss her  _everywhere_ until she's begging for him to fuck her.

She still never says "I love you."

Until that night in his house, when Combeferre is out with his girlfriend Rose and she and Enjolras are sitting on his bed, leaning on each other's backs, books and tea in their hands. Then she spills the tea on his duvet - Éponine guiltily and Enjolras amusedly. They put their respective beverages and books down and look at each other some more, and she's not sure who initiated it, but suddenly they're kissing and pulling desperately at their clothes.

"Enjolras," she gasps as he's propping himself up on his elbows to avoid squashing her as he thrusts repeatedly into her, sending wave after wave of blazing ecstasy through her veins. He drops his head and his mouth is right next to her cheek. 

He says her name in a drawn-out groan and it sparks a memory in her. She remembers the fantasy she'd first created months ago, in Grantaire's flat, picturing  _just like this_ , except in her fantasy he'd been saying something in her ear:

"I love you, oh  _God_ , I love y-  _fuck_ , Enjolras!" It tears itself out of her throat as she practically screams it into his face. He buries his head in her sweat-covered neck, her nails digging into his bare back, and her own spine arches as they climax one after the other, riding out the aftershocks. He rolls off her and they lie there for a few moments, regaining the air in their lungs.

"You got any food?"

Enjolras' conversational tone matches hers perfectly. "Yeah, there's some pesto in the fridge."

"Awesome." She heaves herself up and casts his shirt over her head while throwing his underwear in his direction. "Come on," she says with a smirk, seeing him still staring at the place her bare breasts were a second ago, holding a pair of boxers in one hand and very much naked otherwise. "Unless you'd rather go nude?"

"You wish I did," he says, wiggling his eyebrows at her, and Éponine sends another prayer of thanks to the gods for allowing him to relax and open up so much around her.

She slaps his ass as she takes out the pesto from within the fridge and he pinches her ribs in response while heating up the pasta. 

They're halfway through the meal when Éponine finally musters up her courage. "So you know what I said earlier, back in your bedroom?"  
  
"You said you loved me," Enjolras says with that fucking soft smile and she looks down, unable to meet his eyes.

"Yeah. Um, about that, well..." she doesn't know how to go about this. This wasn't meant to be so awkward.

"It's alright, I know it was - um, you know, in the heat of the moment. Perfectly understandable. It's completely okay," Enjolras says, his ears turning red because no matter how much they have sex he can never actually talk about it without getting flustered.

"Yeah. Hang on,  _what_ _?!_ " Éponine's mouth is hanging open. He  _still_ doesn't know. Even after she'd told him  _three times_. For fuck's sake, he's a genius and a graduate of the best University in France and absolutely brilliant and he doesn't know she loves him?

"Wha...? Sorry, did I- what did I do?" Enjolras looks properly confused and frightened, which is unsurprising because she's staring at him in shock and horror.

"Nothing," she says quickly, her moment of bravery having completely abandoned her. "I just didn't expect you do understand, you know? No offense or anything. Just - don't men normally pull up their pants and run screaming for their lives whenever the L-bomb is dropped?"

"Men like that don't deserve women like you," he responds instantly, tightly, clear blues staring into hers. 

He says it with such conviction her heart aches and her stomach clenches. She holds her breath, and squeezes his hand tight.

* * *

 

Marius and Cosette are finally getting married, after months and months of planning where and when and what and who and how and, in everybody else's case,  _why is this taking so fucking long just get married already_.

All the Amis go, of course, as Marius' groomsmen and Courfeyrac as his best man. Éponine is Cosette's maid of honour, and all the other girls (Musichetta, Azelma, Rose, and Gwendoline, Bahorel's fiancé) are her bridesmaids.

Cosette and Jehan, having joined forces to plan the wedding (after the initial three-hour-long argument on who would plan it), decide on a white and blue colour scheme. Éponine and the bridesmaids wear dresses of varying shades of blue, while Cosette wears a white bridal dress with light blue accents and a  _lot_ of flowers. 

Marius only embarrasses himself once (quite an achievement) and the ceremony goes quite smoothly. When Cosette throws her bouquet (that had been painstakingly arranged by Jehan with the utmost care), it is Azelma that deftly snatches it out of the air. Éponine sees her sister look shyly in Feuilly's direction and narrows her eyes, making a mental note to have a serious conversation with her.

It starts going downhill when the reception starts. There's champagne and little snacks and it's just so  _nice_ it makes Éponine a little queasy. Other people, especially middle aged women, are talking to her and much more often than she would, the subject of her own marriage comes up. Except, of course, she'd then tell them she wasn't getting married anytime soon - in fact, she wasn't even dating anyone. They'd make a noise of pity that made her want to punch them, and then ask if she had her eye on anyone. That'd be when Éponine politely-not-so-politely excuses herself with the coldest tone and most fiery glare she can summon. 

And somewhere down the line, after the fourth middle aged woman asks if  _she_ knew anyone who was available for  _them_ , she stands up very abruptly, because she's realised exactly whose fault this is.

She spots him in the crowd, talking to Combeferre. He's dressed in a suit and tie and it looks so  _sinfully_ good on him that it just makes her all the more angry. If he hadn't been so  _thick_ , then this  _harassment_ could have been completely avoided, and this fucking sexual and emotional frustration building in her head would have been  _resolved_ because she would have had some kind of closure as to exactly what she and Enjolras  _were_.

"You!" she hisses, stomping to a halt in front of him.

"'Ponine!" he grins, turning around. His smile drops at the look on her face. "What's happened?" he asks, concern written all over his beautiful fucking face.

"You," she growls, "are the most stupid, asinine, moronic, vapid, oblivious  _bastard_ I have  _ever_ had the displeasure of knowing!" And, for dramatic effect and also because she is really fucking pissed, she pours her champagne right on top of his perfect golden locks.

The people surrounding them hush immediately, watching the spectable unfold as Enjolras gapes at her, dripping champagne on the marble floor.

"Huh?"

"Exactly!" she throws her arms up, and the glass goes flying into the air, but she's too furious to give a shit. "Do you know what I've been doing for the past  _eleven fucking months?"_

"Uh..." Enjolras says. "No, I don't--"

"Of course you don't, because  _you are so stupid!"_ Éponine jabs him in the chest with her finger. "I have been trying to tell you the same fucking thing for  _eleven months_ and you still haven't fucking picked it up because you either have incredibly bad self-esteem issues (which I know you don't, you arrogant fuckface, or because you're an  _imbecile_ _!"_

"Whatever I did, I'm so sorry--"

" _You don't even know what you did!"_ She knows she's shrieking and raving like a madwoman, and everyone is starting to back away, but this is nearly a year of pent-up feelings and she's not going to stop now she's started. "I told you on my birthday, you fucking assfuck, when you gave me that fucking present, that I  _loved_ you and you thought I was just being gracious!  _Since when have I been gracious, you fucking dumbass?_ "

Enjolras stares, eyes round and still as blue as they are in her secret, hidden-away fantasies, and now he's not even attempting to say things anymore. She thinks she hears Grantaire laugh somewhere behind her but she ignores it.

"I told you at R's house and you thought I was  _drunk!_ Oh my fucking God, really?  _I do not get drunk!"_ She really feels like slapping him. Her hand twitches by her side, itching to hurt him like she's been hurt - like she's been hurting herself because of  _him._ "And we've been having sex for  _four and a half fucking months!_ How much more of a hint do you need? Oh, right, like the one I gave a month ago when Ferre was out and we fucked like bunnies and I yelled it at you and you thought it was just  _in the heat of the fucking moment, you massive prick!_ How  _dumb_  are you?"

Then the words that come out next aren't even the ones she had in mind. They're worse, because they're so much closer to the truth.

"And okay, I may have been a coward in backing out of the two chances to tell you - because I didn't even realise I love you that first time I told you until the day after - but here I am, making a mess of my best friend's wedding day, because people keep asking me if I have my eye on someone and if I'm going to get married to anytime soon, and I keep saying no even though I've loved you for a year without you knowing, even though I keep throwing it in your perfect damned face and if all that time I was making love you to while you were just fucking me then let me make it  _very, very_   _clear_ : I, Éponine, am in love with you,  _Enjolras_ , you fucking asshole!"

Time stands still as they stare at each other, Éponine huffing and puffing like she'd just run a marathon and Enjolras with eyes so wide she was a little concerned they would pop out. She's just bared her soul to him, in front of a hundred other people, and holy  _fuck_ , if he rejects her again, unintentionally or not, she will--

And then he smiles at her like she's the only person in the universe, and her anger dissolves into thin air. Her heart stutters when he steps towards her, lips still stretched in a grin, eyes the bluest she'd ever seen them. He bends his head down towards her, and she feels his lips brushing her ear. The fantasy flashes in her mind again and she has to bite down on her tongue to repress a moan.

"Éponine Thénardier," he whispers, low and husky, and she shudders. "I love you."

He straightens back up and grins down at her and now she's the one that's wide-eyed and disbelieving.

She pulls her hand back and finally slap him.

ANd then she grasps him by the lapels and kisses him, because there's really no more words to be said between them.

He doesn't need to tell her that all this time he's loved her as well, since that trip to the Lost Languages exhibit, because why else would he have spent months getting the piece of rock covered in chicken scratch for her birthday?

She knows. _  
_

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I'd write something Modern E/É from Éponine's point of view. 
> 
> Yes, cliché. Yes, fluffy. Yes, I wrote this very late at night and it has a high possibility of being pure shite. No, I do not have any regrets.
> 
> I hope you enjoy anyway.
> 
> Love,  
> Stormy


End file.
